


Haven Thanksgiving - Or Not

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 16:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: What's in a name?  Sometimes, just about everything.  Just ask Andrew Carter.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Haven Thanksgiving - Or Not

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the war.

A whirlwind of activity had surrounded Haven for the past few weeks.

The last of the fruit from the orchard was being turned into cider or wine or jam, or dried for winter use. The summer garden had been cleared and mulched under, and now the winter garden was coming along nicely, but would need protections ready to be put into place before true cold hit, enough to freeze the liquid inside the leaves, ruining any winter harvest. 

There wasn't much in the winter garden except for scallions and greens, of course, but those greens, of various kinds and in goodly quantity, were what would help provide the extra nourishment that would keep them strong in mind and body and spirit in a way the stored supplies just couldn't quite manage. Besides, as Caeide's mother had always proclaimed with a sly and wicked smile, they were "invigorating". 

Of course, Caeide snorted at the thought of her Peter and Andrew needing any "invigorating". Still, just to be on the safe side, she'd planted an extra two double-rows of the extra-spicy mustard greens. It couldn't hurt, after all.

Nuts were gathered every time any of them ventured out, in the gathering sacks that were kept on the carts or the saddles, with small bags even dangling from their leather belts. The level in the several large baskets in the big front room was ever-increasing, much to Caeide's satisfaction. Those would be cracked and shelled as needed, the rest keeping quite nicely throughout the winter.

Winter feed already was stacked, in bales or bags or bins, in the stock barns; water troughs had been given a good scrubbing, checked for leaks, and flipped upright once again and filled with clean sweet water.

And inside? The looms, the big one and the small, had come out of storage and been set up in the big front room, furniture moved back to allow room for that winter activity. One corner had the carding and combing supplies, as well as a large canvas covering on the floor to catch the stray bits of wool. The old-fashioned treadle sewing machine sat nearby, with large folding table close at hand for cutting and measuring, all tools being on the handy peg rack on the wall nearby, stacks of fabric on the shelves beyond.

Over the next few months, the bags of wool in the store room above stairs would be transformed into blankets and lap robes, new sheets and pillow cases of a winter-weight. The folded linen from one of the Clan Enclaves would become all manner of useful things, including summer bedding. 

The bags of clean golden straw would be woven into baskets of various sizes, and mats for the still-room and brew house floors, the pine needles shipped in from one of the southern enclaves as a novelty would find their own purposes. 

The heavy quilting frame would be lowered from the ceiling, and one or two new quilts would come into being. Clothes would be mended, or if beyond mending, would be latched onto burlap backs or braided into sturdy rugs for their floors. Nothing went to waste at Haven.

Harnesses would be brought in and mended, saddles given a good rub-down with the soap and oil meant for just that purpose, the big front room being a more companionable spot for such work than the tack room in the horse barn. 

And in the corner farthest from the hearth, on a grouping of eight large flat stone tiles that would protect the floors beneath the work table, candles would be dipped and added to the supply in the small cupboard set aside for that purpose. 

Andrew stood back, looking at the room that only a few days ago had been much less crowded, just the big table in the corner with its customary chairs, the hide-away bar along one short wall, a few padded benches, some with backs, some without, and a few comfortable chairs encircling the big fireplace. 

Now, it had been transformed into something quite different. It seemed amazingly efficient and cozy at the same time. Several people could be working on different projects, close enough to share conversation and laughter, but not getting in each other's way.

"Wow! It's like a whole factory in one room! A whole bunch of DIFFERENT factories!"

Peter had to agree, "and the kitchen and stillroom and brew house not much better! 'Cept there, can't 'ardly take a step without bumping into something, or being scolded for getting in the way of someone with their arms full. Can't pass from one place to another without being called to come 'elp with something or other - carry this, go fetch that, take a pad and inventory jars or packets or boxes of whatever."

He wasn't complaining, not really, not when he knew every bit of the cluttering and the busyness and carrying and such had a purpose - keeping them comfortable and content and well-fed over the winter months ahead. 

He DID feel a little uncomfortable in that he was a novice at much of what was being done, being city born and bred, even though he'd spent some little time with country cousins, in his very early days. Not enough, though, to know what some of those 'go do's' even meant, which led to some unexpectedly funny exchanges, usually starting with a wary "you want me to do W'AT???"

Still, he took comfort in the fact that the big table, set just like it had been in Maudie's pub, the table that had welcomed him back from the war, had told him he was indeed home, was in its usual spot, ready for drinks or cards or just conversation. 

Maude had laughed when he'd asked about that, wondering when it would have its turn at being shuttled off to storage like much of the other now-superfluous, out-of-season pieces. He'd tried not to show how much he dreaded that absence, figuring the others would think it foolish beyond belief. Seems he'd been wrong about that, though.

"Not likely, lad. That table's the 'eart of the place, you can ask Caeide if you don't believe me. It's not likely to be going anywhere."

And it hadn't, it would seem, and the level of comfort that gave him, he'd never dare admit, though it warmed him through and through.

And the chairs remained near the fireplace, small tables nearby to hold a glass or, as now, small baskets with nutcracking tools, large baskets of nuts on the floor, sorting bowls stacked on the hearth. Well, he thought that would be a pleasant activity, something he might enjoy, and the others would understand if his hands got troublesome and he wasn't as quick as the others at the task. They each had their strengths, their weaknesses, and were generous with each other in their mutual understanding.

Now, he could tell something was on Andrew's mind, and Peter was pretty much lingering over a job he could have finished ten minutes ago if he'd wanted to. Sooner or later Andrew would need to talk, and if that was what his Andrew needed to do, then Peter needed to be available to listen.

"Caeide was talking about a big dinner next Thursday, a celebration," Andrew said, and there was something about his voice, the hesitant tone that got Peter's attention immediately, told him that time had come for some serious talking, some serious listening.

"You 'ave a problem with that, Andrew? Seems you'd relish that," he commented, slowing in his straightening and inventorying the bottles and supplies at the bar, turning and leaning his back into it, watching Andrew struggle for the right words.

"Well, I didn't think of us HAVING a Thanksgiving dinner, that's all. I wasn't really expecting it. I mean, you and Maude and Marisol are English, and Caeide is Clan. I thought Thanksgiving was just an American thing."

Peter shrugged, "never said anything about this 'Thanksgiving', Andrew, just a celebration dinner. Maybe she's planning it for you, like she did Guy Fawkes Day for the three of us Brits."

A reluctant frown came to the younger man. 

"I kinda wish she wouldn't. We didn't, my mom and dad and me, not exactly anyhow. Oh, I did the usual stuff at school; I could make a real good napkin turkey. And when I was real little, my mom took me to visit her folks then and THEY did. But WE didn't. I mean, well, somehow it didn't seem right. Like it would seem wrong us celebrating Christopher Columbus Day at home. Not that my dad said anything against either; he really tried to fit in with the neighbors as much as possible. But my mom knew - it's kinda hard being all that happy about something that caused your own ancestors so much grief. 

"Oh, we'd have pumpkin pie, but we had that lots, once the pumpkins got ready. And my dad would shoot a wild turkey whenever he got the chance. Mom would roast one in the oven sometimes, but she canned a lot of it too, for the winter. She'd FIX a nice dinner, when we had stuff to fix, on Thanksgiving Day, but never called it that, not among ourselves anyway. It was just 'we had the fixins, we should enjoy while we can, as long as it don't make us short for the hungry time.' 

"My dad wouldn't have told her no, mind you. But I heard her explaining to him, "Andrew can tell any of those nosy enough to ask - 'yes, we sure had a nice dinner' - but I want him to understand the why, and more important, the why-nots. It's not right, otherwise." 

He got a wistful look on his face as he looked up at Peter.

"My mom was real smart, you know, and she loved my dad and me a whole bunch. And she was always real careful about making sure I understood I was walking a path between two worlds, trying to make sure I didn't start disrespecting my dad and his world, just cause the neighbors and some of her family did.

"Well, I wouldn't have done that, anyway. If I'd had my way, I wouldn't have left the res in the first place; would have stayed and studied with my grandfather. But my mom and dad figured I needed both, just like he figured my mom needed to be near her family."

Peter thought about all that, and later, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, remembering that worried, uncomfortable look on his Andrew's face, watched Caeide at the table with all her lists scattered all about.

"Caeide-luv, you got a minute?" he asked.

She shoved her red hair back out of her eyes, slowly brought her mind back from the organized chaos in front of her.

{"Pantry inventory - we're needing more baking powder and fresh spices. All we could harvest from the gardens and orchards is already in jars, or bags or baskets, waiting to use. Probably should get in another shipment of wheat flour from the mill, and the oats shipment should be here in another week or so. Stillroom inventory - that last batch of lung tea should see us through the winter, but I'd not mind having another made up, just in case, knowing Peter as we do. Rather have and not need, than to risk him for the lack. Maybe another TWO batches, just in case? Think Elsbeth should be able to send me what we'd need; she said she had a bumper crop this year, far more than she's needing. Can send her a bushel or two of hickory nuts in return, maybe a dozen jars of those pear preserves along with. Smokehouse couldn't get another blessed thing in there, so we'll not go shy of meat, if we go careful-like. Liquor supply should be fine, if Ian can bring in those last cases as he promised. Gifts for the Winter Solstice, and oddments for their 'Christmas baskets', will be coming in on the next shipment as well, along with the seasonal restocking for the library. And next week I need to get started on the sorting out items for the neighbors' Christmas baskets. I hope we have . . ."

She blinked, finally realizing she was being addressed, and by whom.  
Pushing the papers aside, she smiled at him, and waved him to a chair, standing to get the coffee pot from the stove.

"Of course, Peter. Come, sit. The coffee is still hot," turning to pull the cream from the cold box.

"Not for me. A little late for that," he admitted, setting the bottle and two glasses he'd brought with him from the big room onto the wooden table.

She frowned, puzzled, "late? It's only . . ." and flushed as she looked at the clock on the wall. "And here I am blocking the table when I should be setting it for the breakfast meal!" she exclaimed, seeing how the time had gotten away from her. Yes, all she was doing was necessary, and necessarily time-consuming, but she hadn't realized she'd been at it THAT long.

"Well, Maude did say you were getting done in one evening w'at you'd said would take two," he laughed at her look of rueful acknowledgement of that.

"Then, yes, a drink, and yes, a bit of conversation, if you wish, Peter," she said, setting the coffee pot aside to cool, pushing all the paper into one stack to sort on the morrow.

She'd pour the dark liquid into a tall canning jar when it got just a bit more away from scalding; it would serve for when she or one of the others needed the energy the next day, but being without the time to make a pot. 

Besides, she'd never countenance the waste of discarding what remained. If no one drank it the next day, there was the coffee-flavored pastry Maude made so well, the coffee and rum flavored pudding that everyone enjoyed, even the coffee and horehound candies that helped soothe a dry throat. No, it would not go to waste. NOTHING went to waste at Haven, unless it was truly unsalvageable, and there was little that met that description. 

"So, about this big dinner of yours next Thursday. Andrew's a little, well, anxious about that. Seems this 'Thanksgiving' aint an all-round joy for 'im, unlike for some Yanks."

And he proceeded to tell her what Andrew had shared with him. She sat, listening, but he could tell she was a little puzzled, was trying to gain her footing. That seemed odd; she was usually very quick off the mark as far as understanding the ins-and-outs of those who shared Haven with her.

She sat, thinking, and then gave just a rueful little laugh. 

"I have to confess, Peter, it never even occurred to me that next Thursday WAS this 'Thanksgiving' the Americans seem to celebrate. The Clan, we always try to have a Harvest Dinner, when most of the gathering-in has been done, things are being put in place for making sure of a snug winter. Marking the end of one season, the beginning of the start of the winter things, the weaving and stitching and harness repair and planning for the next year's breeding and what we want in the garden and what we need to change from what we did this year. I never even thought . . ."

Well, Peter acknowledged to himself, that made sense. He'd heard her talking about what she called the 'change-over' several times the past month, with them and with her brother Ian when he'd dropped off the mail and supplies.

She sipped at her drink, then looked at Peter. 

"Next Thursday was just a happenstance choosing, just a day that looked likely. That's hardly set in stone. Should we put the whole thing off a week or so, do you think? I don't want to wait too long, we'll be well into other things, including the Winter Solstice preparations and then your and the neighbors' Christmas soon after. In fact, there's no reason not to move it up some, even, if that would work better, ease Andrew's mind. There's no guests invited, other than Reverend Miles, him being used to the Harvest Dinner, unless Ian shows up on a supply run. What do you think would work best? I DO need at least two days' warning, though, to get everything in order," she cautioned him.

"We'll see w'at Andrew 'as to say," Peter suggested, rising to go fetch their partner.

Another drink, this time including all three, Andrew's eyes growing huge at the realization he'd misunderstood what was being planned, Caeide's rueful at not understanding he MIGHT have misunderstood, at her not explaining well enough in the beginning.

Peter was getting a little amused now, watching the interplay. Well, there was still a lot they had to learn about each other, and it cropped up in the strangest ways sometimes.

Finally a slow smile, then a huge grin came over Andrew's face. 

"A Harvest Dinner - celebrating the end of one season, beginning of the next. Huh! You know, that's kinda like what the tribe would do, a celebrating of the turn of the seasons. That's real neat, Caeide, that the Clan does that too! Yeah, that'd be great! And I don't see any reason next Thursday wouldn't be a GREAT day for a Harvest Dinner! There's no sense changing all your plans, especially with the Reverend already planning on it. What can I do to help?" he asked enthusiastically, all reservations now out the window and gone.

And Caeide reached out to sort through that stack of papers, to pull out one of her never-ending lists, Peter and Andrew chuckling at the sight. 

"Well, Andrew, there's plenty that will need doing. Take a look and see what takes your fancy," she offered with an encouraging look.

"Wow! I can do LOTS of this stuff! This is going to be really great, Caeide!! And you do this every year??! WOW!" 

And he sighed in deep satisfaction, huge smile on his face, total peace in his fawn-like eyes.

She and Peter exchanged a satisfied look. Yes, all was well again with their Andrew, bless him. 

Somehow she knew their young partner would have no objections to the thanks she would offer up to their Sweet Mother Erdu for the blessings that had been poured out on them that year, nor the blessings she would beg for the year to come. THAT was what 'thanks-giving' would mean for them every year to come, and the word would no longer cause shadows to form in Andrew's brown eyes, much to Peter's relief.

Although Meghada was going to make a note in her 'List of Future Lists', make a point to schedule those future Harvest Dinner on a date OTHER than the fourth Thursday in November from now on. 

{"After all, a day to give thanks shouldn't be limited to any one particular day anyway!"}


End file.
